


of prom dresses and bathroom stalls

by owlinaminor



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dresses, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac sighs dramatically and places the back of her hand across her forehead, like a wronged Southern belle.  “Ferre, I have a problem,” she announces.</p><p>“What is it?” Combeferre asks.</p><p>“I need ...” A pause, for dramatic effect. “To pee.”</p><p>Of course.  Combeferre rolls her eyes.  “And why are you telling me?”</p><p>“Because, um, I don’t know how to get this skirt off?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	of prom dresses and bathroom stalls

**Author's Note:**

> this fic exists because my prom was last weekend, and while in the bathroom I overheard one girl awkwardly asking another girl for help because she didn't know how to go to the bathroom in her huge, elaborate dress -- I think the exact words were, "would it be weird if I asked you to help me pee?" -- and then I told my boyfriend about it, and he said THAT SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING COUFEYRAC WOULD ASK COMBEFERRE. (and then he bothered me to actually write it as a fic. this is what I get for making him read les mis fanfiction, I guess.)
> 
> also, thanks to the lovely [courfeyrock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/courfeyrock) for beta-ing, and the reference I used for courf’s dress can be found [here](http://prom-dresses.kaltsum.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/green-prom-dresses-long.jpg%20). :)

Combeferre is coming out of the stall when the bathroom door opens with a loud click.

“Oh, my God, it’s so hot in there, I feel like I can finally breathe – wow, this bathroom is really nice, the school totally went overboard – and yet they couldn’t get a place with proper air conditioning, what the fuck – oh, hey, Ferre, didn’t see you there.”

Courfeyrac pauses her mile-a-minute vocal sprint to grin at Combeferre, and the other girl loses her ability to speak for a moment.  She’s seen Courfeyrac in her dress before – and not just that, it’s been almost five hours since they all met at Cosette’s house for pre-prom pictures – but it’s still so ... _She’s_ still so ... Stunning, is the first word that comes to Combeferre’s mind.  Courfeyrac’s dress is green, emerald green – the color of a forest in the springtime, or her eyes – with a sleeveless bodice decorated with a pattern of silver and a long skirt that could probably fit a small circus, or so Courf joked when she first saw it, shopping with Combeferre and Enjolras.  (Combeferre thinks the dress makes her look like a princess.)  And Courfeyrac has her hair up in an elaborate bun, strands already coming loose from dancing, and her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are shining and ... It’s a well-known fact that the girls at prom look a thousand times better than the guys, and Courfeyrac is far from an exception.

It takes every ounce of willpower Combeferre has to not grab her and kiss her senseless then and there.

“Um.  Hi,” she says instead.  “How’s ... Everything?”

At this, Courfeyrac sighs dramatically and places the back of her hand across her forehead, like a wronged Southern belle.  “Ferre, I have a problem,” she announces.

“What is it?” Combeferre asks.

“I need ...” A pause, for dramatic effect. “To pee.”

 _Of course._   Combeferre rolls her eyes.  “And why are you telling me?”

“Because, um, I don’t know how to get this skirt off?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Combeferre takes a deep breath and then says, very slowly, “Do you want some help with it, then?”

Courfeyrac turns bright red – and, as audio accompaniment, lets out a high-pitched squeak.  (It’s adorable, and Combeferre is helpless.)  “No – I – I mean – do you think maybe we could get Enjolras?” Courfeyrac adds quickly.

Combeferre is unsure whether to be insulted or relieved that Courfeyrac clearly doesn’t want her help – insulted, because Courf is her best friend, but relieved, because she’s not sure how she’d be able to handle _that dress_ (and the girl underneath it) in close quarters.

But.  Wait.  Enjolras?

“Enjolras is a guy, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says.

“Are you sure?” Courfeyrac counters.

“I am very sure.”

“Have you _checked_?”

By this time, the other girls in the bathroom are looking at them very strangely.  And Combeferre is struck by a sudden burst of resolve – maybe Courfeyrac doesn’t want _her_ help, specifically, but Combeferre is a reasonably smart and capable person, and she can figure out how to help her friend pee.  There’s no reason this should be a dilemma.  None at all.

“First of all, we’ve both seen him naked at some point in our lives, you know that, and second of all, I’m more trustworthy with dresses than he is, anyway,” Combeferre says.  “Now, come on,” she adds, grabbing Courfeyrac’s hand (and decidedly not focusing on how soft and warm it is, how well it fits into her palm) and dragging her to an empty stall.  Courfeyrac makes a noise of surprise at first, but then lets herself be tugged along without complaint.

Combeferre discourages any and all judging glances with her most potent glare.

* * *

 The stall is tiny and cramped – definitely not built for two people, one of them in an elaborate ball gown – but Combeferre and Courfeyrac have been sharing small spaces since they claimed the same spot for naptime back in kindergarten, so close quarters is no problem for them.

“Okay, so we need to find some way to lift this up,” Combeferre says, examining Courfeyrac’s skirt as though it’s a complex calculus formula.

“But, like, I don’t want to break it!” Courfeyrac runs her hands delicately over the emerald-green fabric, mapping potential tears.  “I feel like if I breathe too hard, this thing is gonna rip in half.”

Combeferre sighs.  “Don’t be silly,” she says, not all that reassuringly.  “We’re both honors students, managing multiple AP classes – we can handle a dress.”

“You can’t treat a skirt like a math problem, Ferre,” Courfeyrac replies, but she’s grinning all the same.

“Yes, I can.”  Combeferre takes ahold of Courfeyrac’s shoulders and turns her around so that her back is to the toilet, then bends down in order to lift up her skirt, revealing Courf’s golden high heels.  “Impressive,” she says, slowly gathering taffeta.  “I’m surprised you haven’t fallen over yet.”

“Excuse you, I have amazing balance!”

“I’m sure you do.”

* * *

It takes a few minutes (well, to Combeferre, it seems as though it takes several hours -- Courfeyrac is so close and it may just be Combeferre's imagination but she could swear the stall is slowly heating up around her), but the two girls manage to get Courf's skirt high enough that she can sit down on the toilet.

"See?  What did I tell you?" Combeferre says, perhaps a bit more triumphant than the occasion calls for.  "This wasn't so hard."

"Yeah, just don't let me get this wet," Courfeyrac replies.  She reaches beneath her skirt, fiddles around for a second, and then grins as something bright pink drops to the ground.  "Do you like my panties, Combeferre?"

Combeferre's face turns almost as pink as the underwear.  It takes all of her concentration (and determined mental reciting of the Periodic Table) to not drop Courfeyrac's skirt as she sits down and finally relieves her bladder.  (The skirt is a lifeline.  If she lets go of the skirt, she doesn't know what she'll -- she doesn't know.  And, God, she's probably going to leave handprints on Courfeyrac's beautiful dress.)

"This isn't that awkward, is it?" Courf asks.

Combeferre is in severe danger of spontaneous combustion.  "No," she says.  "Not that awkward."

"Oh, really?  Then why are you blushing?"  Courfeyrac's grin stretches across her face wider than the Cheshire cat's.  She leans in closer -- her eyes are wide and green and inches away -- Combeferre is _falling --_

_Slam!_

The door to the bathroom shuts so hard, a gust of air blows right into the stall.

"Hey, Combeferre!  Courfeyrac!" a voice suspiciously similar to Cosette's shouts.  "I know you guys are in here!  You have to get out  _right now_  -- Enjolras and Grantaire are dancing!"

And the moment – whatever moment they might have had, whatever moment Combeferre might have possibly invented -- is gone.  Courfeyrac stands hurriedly, pulls up her underwear, and tears out of Combeferre's grip, all premise of care tossed to the wind.

"They're what?" she shouts, running out of stall (and then the bathroom) so quickly, Combeferre is surprised she doesn't trip.  "Are you sure it wasn't just a couple of guys who vaguely  _looked_  like Enjolras and Grantaire?"

Combeferre stares after her for a moment, then follows.  (She always follows.)

* * *

 As it turns out, the rumors are true and Cosette was not hallucinating – Enjolras and Grantaire are, in fact, dancing.  (Well, arguing with their arms around each other, which seems to be the closest thing the two of them are capable of.)

Combeferre and Courfeyrac join their friends in making the slow dance experience as torturous as possible for the happy couple.  Courfeyrac does a “proud parent” routine, oohing and aahing and taking endless pictures with her cell phone; Jehan pulls a notebook out of god-knows-where in the folds of her magenta dress and begins to compose poetry for the occasion; the rest of Les Amis just stand around, making analogies about how uncomfortable the two boys look.  Nevertheless, Enjolras and Grantaire continue to dance until the end of the song, when they pull apart with bright red faces (Enjolras) and ridiculously wide smiles (Grantaire.)

A faster song starts up, and Courfeyrac herds everyone else onto the dance floor, demanding that “If you don’t dance then you’re no friends of mine.”  (When they protest, she starts actually singing the Safety Dance song, and seriously, nobody wants that.)

Combeferre stands to the side at first, watching the rest of her friends.  She feels a bit out of place here, on the dance floor – her limbs are too awkward for dancing, long and lanky and thin, and she has no idea what to do with them.  Courfeyrac, on the other hand, is in her element, pulling first one person and then another into dances that make even the graceless Bossuet appear to know what he’s doing.  And even though she’s probably sweating incredibly in the heat of hundreds of bodies close together, she doesn’t look uncomfortable at all – instead, she’s practically glowing, radiating happiness and excitement and –

Combeferre is so fucked, it’s not even funny.

Courfeyrac notices her, after a couple of songs.  “Ferre, you can’t come onto the dance floor and then _not dance_ ,” she says, pouting.

“But I –”

“No.  Stop right there.”  Courfeyrac reaches up and covers Combeferre’s mouth with her hand.  “Dancing’s easy.  All you have to do is shake your beautiful butt with the music.”

And before Combeferre and protest any further, Courf grabs both her hands, pulls her in.  She doesn’t let go once Combeferre is fully surrounded by the throng of dancers – instead, she lifts Combeferre’s hands high in the air, then waves them around in time with the music.

“See?” she says.  “Easy.”

Combeferre ends up laughing in spite of herself.

One would think that in a ball gown and high heels, dancing of the high school prom variety would be impossible, but Courfeyrac somehow manages to make it work.  And not only that, she drags Combeferre down with her, both of them swaying and shimmying and spinning until Combeferre can’t remember why she was nervous about this in the first place.

And then, another slow song comes on.

The moment Combeferre realizes that the beat is suddenly much less upbeat than before, her eyes widen.  “Um, I’ll just – just, um –” she stars, backing away.

For every step she takes back, Courfeyrac takes three steps forward, soon catching up to Combeferre with her short, quick strides, and grabbing her hands again.

“I thought we were dancing?” she asks.  She cocks her head, smiling slightly – and if Combeferre didn’t know any better, she’d say Courf was nervous.

“I – I guess we were,” Combeferre stammers.  She hardly knows what’s happening as Courfeyrac places her hands carefully on her waist, then lifts her own arms up to slip around Combeferre’s neck – it happens as though in a dream to someone much lucker than Combeferre.

A cheer goes up among their friends, and it isn’t for Enjolras and Grantaire this time.

“I’m so _proud_ of you two,” Grantaire exclaims.  He actually has the audacity to applaud.

Courfeyrac glances away from Combeferre long enough to shout back, “Shut up, R!”

Combeferre laughs, too happy where she is to be annoyed by her friends.  And besides – “You did the same thing to him,” she tells Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac groans and buries her face in Combeferre’s shoulder, which – help mayday mayday  -- Combeferre does not know how to operate.

“It was a different circumstance,” Courf mutters into Combeferre’s shoulder.  “This isn’t fair.  Enjolras, tell him it isn’t fair!” she adds, pulling away to yell at the boy in question.  (And Combeferre can breathe again.)

Enjolras regards his best friends for a long moment, considering all possible courses of action, then says, “I think you should kiss.”

Combeferre is a high honors student.  She got almost perfect scores on her SATs.  She knows how to solve math problems so complex, her teacher refuses to continue giving her extra credit.  And yet, she has absolutely no clue how to react to Enjolras’ suggestion.

Luckily, Courfeyrac seems to have an idea.

“What do you say, Combeferre?” she asks, winking in a way that can only properly be described as amateur seductive.  “Shall we finish what we started in the bathroom earlier?”

An “oooooh” rises around them in the true style of immature middle-school boys.

Combeferre inches closer to Courfeyrac, then whispers frantically, “But – what do you mean – nothing –”

Courfeyrac cuts her of.  Effectively.  With her lips.

The kiss lasts for a couple of seconds – blissful seconds – absolutely perfect seconds.

And then, Courfeyrac grins (so wide, it’s like the sun came out), and says, “Rule number one of dating me: if you _can_ perpetuate false rumors that make your friends suspicious yet impressed, _do_ perpetuate false rumors that make your friends suspicious yet impressed.”

Combeferre just stares at her.

“That is, if you want to date me, I mean ...” Courfeyrac’s smile is faltering, and that should definitely not be allowed.

So, Combeferre nods.  Enthusiastically.  Multiple times.

“Good,” Courfeyrac says.  And she leans in to kiss Combeferre again.  (It lasts longer this time.)

* * *

And hour later, fate finds them once again sharing a stall in the girls’ bathroom, but for an entirely different reason.

Courfeyrac presses Combeferre up against the door to the stall, kissing her every place she can reach – lips, cheek, neck, collarbone.

“Do you have _any idea,_ ” she asks in between kisses, “how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

“No?  I mean, maybe?” Combeferre replies.  (She still feels dazed, giddy – expecting to wake up any second.)

“Years, Ferre,” Courfeyrac says.  She catches Combeferre’s lips in a long kiss, hot and wet and so much more than everything Combeferre’s ever wanted, and then repeats, “ _Years._   And hours, really badly, since I saw you in that _dress_.”

Wait.  What?  That’s definitely wrong.

“ _My_ dress?” Combeferre protests.  “But you look so much better in yours!”

“Lies.  You are the most beautiful girl at this school, Ferre, don’t even try to deny it.”

Combeferre shakes her head.  ( _Most beautiful_ in _years_ and if this is a dream, she doesn’t want to wake up.)  “You look like you belong in a fairytale.”

“Me?”  Courf laughs, loud and joyful.  “If there are any fairytales about incompetent dorks who can’t pee in their dresses without help, maybe.”  She reaches to grab Combeferre’s hands, running her thumbs across the palms.  “Why didn’t you kiss me then, by the way?”

Combeferre blushes, remembering.  “Didn’t know you’d be receptive.”

“Oh, you should’ve known from the moment I agreed to let you help me pee.”

“I should’ve?”

Courfeyrac gives Combeferre her Very Serious Face, then says, “Combeferre, you are the only girl I trust enough to help me pee.”

For some reason, Combeferre’s heart swells.  “You’re ridiculous,” she tells Courf, but she’s grinning, as though all is right with the world.

“Yeah, but you love me for it,” Courfeyrac replies.

Combeferre lifts their joined hands and kisses Courfeyrac’s palm, humming softly.

(She doesn’t have to say the _of course I do_ , but Courfeyrac hears it all the same.)

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me about horribly cute girlfriends on [tumblr](http://liberteegalitehomosexualite.tumblr.com/)


End file.
